Reservations for Two

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  We made small talk, and I gently reminded her who Neil and I were. After Cécile and I had each enjoyed a madeleine and Neil had eaten four, I ventured a question. “Where exactly did Mireille and Gabriel meet?”

  “Paris,” Cécile said, setting down her teacup. “Mireille wrote me letters, but kept him a secret from our parents as long as she could.”

  I sat up straight. “Letters?”

  “Naturellement. Mireille and Gabriel wrote letters too, after she returned to the chateau. How else would they continue their attachment?”

  “Um…a telephone?”

  “Too expensive, calls from Paris. And besides, Papa wouldn’t have it. Mail—she pretended to be writing a girlfriend she’d met in the city.”

  “Letters, then.” I pleated my skirt between my fingers and tried my best to sound casual. “Tell me about them.”

  Cécile’s eyes widened. “They were very romantic,” she said, leaning forward. “Passionate. I traveled to Paris after she went back, telling our parents that I needed new clothes when really Mireille wanted me to meet him. She married him just a couple weeks later. Everyone was shocked, of course, but not me.”

  Neil squeezed my hand.

  “What happened to him?” I asked. In all likelihood, I already knew the answer. “How did he die?”

  “Die?” Cécile’s face went blank. “Who told you that?”

  “Well…” My voice trailed off. Come to think of it, I had no records. I opened my mouth to say as much but Cécile interrupted.

  “I had a letter just last week from Mireille. She’s with child, you know. They’re so excited. He’s dead? Are you sure?”

  “No.” I patted her hand. “I must have been mistaken.”

  “Never speak lightly about such things! And Mireille with child…” She shook her head. “Ce serait un désastre. They love each other so much.”

  “So—Mireille and Gabriel are happy?”

  “Très joyeux.” She shook her head. “My heart longs for a man to look at me the way Gabriel looks at her. Or,” she added, her voice coy, “the way this gentleman looks at you.”

  My face turned pink. Neil winked at me.

  So many emotions fought for dominance—relief, happiness, frustration. Cécile remembered Gabriel for the first time in days, but only half the story.

  I crossed my legs together at the ankle and tried to reorganize my mind into a new line of questions. “So what is Gabriel’s occupation?”

  “He is a pastry chef. Mireille assured Papa that he is a very important pastry chef, working at Maxim’s. Not that Papa cared.”

  “What is he like?”

  “Handsome—très beau. They look well together, he with his dark hair, Mireille with her blond curls.”

  I smiled. From what I’d seen in the photo of Gabriel I’d found in Grand-mère’s cookbook, his resemblance to my brother Nico was uncanny. “And they wrote letters. Did Mireille keep them all, you suppose?”

  “She kept all of the letters I wrote to her in Paris—she showed me. All tied up with a pink silk ribbon. She read them when she was lonely, she told me. I can’t imagine she would part with Gabriel’s letters.”

  “Where do you think they might be?”

  “I imagine she has them with her in Paris.”

  “Of course,” I said. “When you were girls here, did she have a hiding place for things in the chateau?”

  “The window seat in the north garret, of course,” Cécile answered without pause. “It’s where we kept all of our secrets away from Papa. The seat sticks until you know how to lift it just right.”

  “How is that?” Neil asked.

  “I couldn’t say,” she said with a coy smile.

  One last try. “Is there room for me to hide something? In the window seat, I mean?”

  She patted my hand. “I’m sure you can find a new place to hide something, dear. And besides, you wouldn’t want me to find it, would you?” Cécile leaned forward and took another madeleine from the plate. “These are very good. Mireille is such a good baker—I’d know her madeleines anywhere.”

  “She’s very good,” I agreed, while a mixture of pride and frustration stirred in my heart.

  Neil and I tidied up Cécile’s sitting room before we left; Sandrine arrived to assist her mother to bed. We wished them both a good evening and slipped out of Cécile’s rooms and toward the rooms my grand-mère had used in her youth.

  The garret above Grand-mère’s rooms had been designed for use as servants’ quarters, but had since become the storage nook for stray linens, pillows, lamps, and old clothes.

  Neither Neil nor I spoke as we picked our path to the window. “Do you think this is it?” I asked.

  “If it opens easily, I imagine not,” he said. “But don’t worry, I brought this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sturdy flathead screwdriver.

  My eyes widened. “I don’t want to damage anything—do you think that’ll help?”

  “It’s a screwdriver. They can open lots of things.”

  “You’re referencing Doctor Who again, aren’t you?”

  He winked at me. “Let’s take a look.”

  We knelt in front of the ledge, and I removed the chintz cushion. I tried to lift the seat and it didn’t budge.

  “I think we’ve got the right one at least,” Neil said, reaching for it. He jiggled the lip of the seat back and forth, and then side to side.

  As he shifted it to the left, the hinge seemed to loosen. We looked at each other and grasped the seat together, pushing it to the left and then up.

  “Oh,” I breathed as the lid raised without argument and revealed its contents.

  Letters. Bundles and bundles of letters.

  Food is never just food. It’s also a way of getting at something else: who we are, who we have been, and who we want to be.

  —MOLLY WIZENBERG

  I scooped out one stack of letters with careful hands and examined the envelope until my eyes confirmed what my heart knew to be true. “Look,” I said, holding one out for Neil to see. “It’s addressed to my grandmother. Look at the return address.”

  “G. Roussard.”

  I ran my finger over the brittle envelope. “My grandfather wrote this, my real grandfather. Look at his handwriting!”

  “It’s very neat,” Neil observed.

  “But confident, don’t you think? Confident but unpretentious.”

  Neil nudged my shoulder. “True, but there’s a hint of cynicism in the way he dots his is.”

  “Don’t tease.” I held the stack closer to the ceiling light and squinted. “I don’t know—it was only a few months ago that I found this man even existed.”

  “Are you going to take all of the letters with you?”

  I hesitated. In my hands I held my grandmother’s letters. I felt strange removing them from the house without telling Sandrine, but a part of me worried about her response. Without much self-examination, I knew I would smuggle them out of the country under my clothes or behind my suitcase lining if I had to.

  Not that such lengths would be necessary. “I’ll take them back to my room tonight and figure out what all is in there—that’s a lot of paper, and they may not all be Mireille’s.”

  “Cécile said it was their spot.”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes people stash things in strange places. You wouldn’t believe the things my sister Sophie keeps in her glove compartment. Let’s just say—not gloves.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Anyway, I’ll look at them tonight and ask Sandrine about them in the morning.”

  With little effort I found a mismatched chintz pillowcase that made an adequate antique mailbag. We walked hand in hand back down to the family wing.

  Neil pressed a kiss against my temple. “I’m glad I get to be here with you.”

  I turned my head for a real kiss. “I’m glad you’re here too. I just…”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re here. At a French chatea
u. I worry that all of this…as wonderful as it is…” I sighed. We’d reached my door. I opened the door and put the letters on the bed gently before wrapping my arms around Neil’s neck. “Real life is waiting for us. All of this is like an episode of The Bachelor. You know”—I waved my hand—“without the excessive drinking, crying, and filmed confessionals.”

  “You don’t know. I could be going back to my room only to spill my heart out to my webcam.”

  “True.”

  Neil stroked my cheek with his thumb. “One day at a time?”

  I nodded. “One day at a time.”

  “One very good day at a time,” Neil echoed before he lowered his lips to mine.

  I lifted my chin to meet him halfway. As we kissed, I breathed in his scent, enjoyed the feel of his arms around me. This was his superpower—as long as he held me in his embrace, I truly believed that everything would be okay. I believed we would have a future, that we would be able to work through the massive challenges that our relationship faced. Distance, culture, work—none of it mattered when Neil’s hands entwined in my hair and his lips crushed my own.

  We parted with breathless reluctance. “Sleep well,” I said, looking up at him shyly.

  “Good night,” Neil said with a nod, his eyes still on my lips. He turned and left for his own room before either of us could change our minds on an encore.

  With my toes still tingling, I closed my door and turned to my bedtime reading. Sitting on the bed with crossed legs, I removed each tied bundle from the pillowcase and spread them out over the quilt. One by one, I carefully untied each stack to evaluate the contents.

  Some were letters both to and from Mireille, between her and Gabriel. Others were addressed to Cécile.

  Next I began to arrange each bundle by date, but discovered quickly that they’d already been in chronological order and bundled per month. Curious.

  In the end, I painstakingly laid out each bundle, took a picture of each letter, and then retied the stack before moving on to the next. Once I’d photographed every letter—some of them containing multiple pages, all of them both front and back—I downloaded all of the photos onto my computer and began the painstaking process of ordering each letter according to the date.

  I’d photographed the envelopes as well, so most of the letters consisted of three photographs. I organized the letter photographs into folders, and then ordered the folders by date.

  I was nearly finished when I heard a knock at my door. “Come in,” I called.

  Neil’s face appeared. “I heard typing and figured you were awake.” He looked to me, looked at the letters on the still-made bed, and back to me. “Juliette—did you sleep?”

  I looked at him. “Is it morning?”

  He nodded, a bemused smile on his face. “Yes, love, it’s morning. Did the letters keep you up?”

  “I photographed and organized them so I could read them without worrying about damage.” I looked out the window. Sure enough, morning daylight streamed past the edge of the curtain. “I guess I stayed up all night.”

  “You look a little cross-eyed. Cute,” he amended quickly, “but cross-eyed.”

  “I…feel a little sleepy.”

  “I imagine so. Sandrine’s making breakfast for the chateau guests and staff. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, I think so,” I answered after thinking a moment.

  “What had you working so hard?”

  I stood and showed him my system. Neil’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m impressed. I would hire you as a research assistant.”

  “Oh really?”

  He dropped a kiss on my lips. “If you weren’t so overqualified, yes.”

  I snorted. “Overqualified? You’re funny. I don’t know the first thing about immunology or lab work—I’d be the worst.”

  “I bet you’d be able to write grant applications like a pro, and if you cook, you’ve got a handle on basic chemistry. So, these letters—are you still wanting to keep the hard copies?”

  “They’re family history; they’re important. It looks like most of them are between Grand-mère and Grand-tante Cécile, but some are from Gabriel. I don’t have anything else of his. With the digital copies, there’s no way they can be damaged by repeated reading.” I sighed. “What I am disappointed about, though, is I didn’t find any more photographs. I was hoping for, I don’t know, a wedding photo or something.”

  “Would she have mailed it?”

  “Maybe. Probably not. It was a nice dream, though.” I looked up at him. “It does make me wonder if there’s another stash somewhere around here of photographs.”

  “Didn’t you ask Sandrine about that already?”

  “I did. But then, she didn’t seem to know about the letters. There’re a lot of things in this house.”

  “So you need to be able to ask Cécile.”

  I nodded. “Probably. And who knows, maybe Grand-mère took them with her when she moved to the States. I’ve been through her belongings, though, and haven’t found anything new. Maybe they’re hidden somewhere I’ve not looked yet—she was certainly trying to keep it a secret.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I wasn’t trained to be a superspy.”

  “No?”

  “Nope.”

  Neil tucked my hair behind my ear. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

  A quick glance at the mirror told me that I looked oily and red-eyed and a little wild around the edges. My vanity got the best of me as I pulled my hair back, used a blotting paper on my nose, and zipped on a lace-trimmed hoodie.

  “Bonjour!” Sandrine sang out when she saw us. “I made American pancakes this morning. Would you like some? I am about to serve the first batch to my guests.”

  “I can make some for us,” I said, taking in the batter, the greased griddle, and the bowl of sliced apricots. “You can go and fuss over the guests.”

  “Ah, bien,” she answered, loading a platter full of beautiful apricot-studded pancakes to take away. “Bon, I pour the batter and place the slices over the top just so. They’re very moist because of the crème fraîche, and then I serve them with a crème anglaise.”

  “It looks great,” I said, taking the ladle in hand and stirring the batter, just to get a feel for the consistency. “Don’t worry about us.”

  Sandrine grinned her thanks, and I turned my attention to breakfast.

  “I can do that, if you want to sit,” Neil offered.

  I waved him away. “I can make pancakes in my sleep.”

  “I liked that she called them ‘American pancakes.’ ”

  “Well, they are. French pancakes are crepes, and German pancakes are a whole other deal altogether.” I ladled four puddles of batter onto the griddle, enjoying the sizzling sound they made as batter met butter. “English pancakes are closer to crepes, just thicker.”

  “Reminds me of when I was in Toronto for a conference. I tried to order a Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza but got tongue-tied.”

  I laughed and began to arrange the apricots. “What did you do?”

  “I said ‘Hawaiian’ instead. The guy seemed to know what I was talking about.”

  “Quick thinking.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In truth, between the crème fraîche and the crème anglaise topping, I think these pancakes are a bit more trans-Atlantic than American.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  He watched as I tested the edge of a pancake and then flipped it over with a decisive flick of the wrist.

  I met his gaze over my shoulder. “What?”

  “I like watching you cook.”

  “That’s good, because I do it a lot,” I said, flashing him a saucy smile.

  A few moments later we sat down with breakfast. Tea for me and coffee for him, with plates of steaming apricot-laced pancakes smothered in chilled crème anglaise.

  “I need the recipe for this,” I said, three bites in. “Clementine would kill for this. Or reverse-engineer it.”

  “They’re ve
ry good. Maybe you could make them for my parents when you meet them.”

  “Your parents?” My back straightened. “I thought they were in North Carolina.”

  “They are, but I think they’re hoping to visit Memphis for a day or two to meet you. That is, if you’re still wanting to come out to Memphis.”

  “When did they say that?”

  “I talked to them a couple days ago.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s great.”

  As the words left my mouth, I tried to decide if I meant them or not. Sure, he’d met my parents. Sure, I wanted to meet his parents. But…despite the fact that we’d broken up and reconciled, our relationship was still early days. We were still getting accustomed to each other. His parents traveling to meet me? Suddenly it felt like a lot of pressure.

  I cut another bit of pancake with my knife and fork. Who was I to talk about pressure? Back in Portland, I’d brought Neil to a dinner with my entire family. Personal questions had been asked. Had there been a podium, it could have looked like a press conference, just with better food and fewer camera flashes. There was no way his parents could prove to be more awkward than my family, en masse.

  Could they?

  “So,” I began, trying to find the best way to broach the topic, “what have you told them? About me, I mean.”

  Neil’s eyes gleamed. “Fishing for compliments?”

  My face flushed. “No, I mean…I was just curious what you’d told them. About us.” And me, by extension.

  “I told them that you’re smart,” he said. “And lovely, and a wonderful cook, and one of the most creative, interesting people I’ve ever met. I told them we’re dating, and that I’m very serious about you.”

  My heart swelled. “Oh,” I said simply.

  “Nothing you didn’t already know.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’m not sure you ever said, ‘Juliette’ ”—I affected a lowered voice, which didn’t sound anything like a man—“ ‘I am very serious about you.’ ”

  Neil rolled his eyes before giving me an affectionate grin. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”